Death of a Ghost
by JacksBoonie
Summary: Things have been set right. But Dastan and his brothers will soon learn that the dagger does not give without taking in return. Dastan's very soul may be at stake.
1. Chapter 1

**Death of a Ghost**

Summary: Things have been set right. But Dastan and his brothers will soon learn that the dagger does not give without taking in return. Dastan's very soul may be at stake.

Disclaimer: I do not own the movie _Prince of Persia_. I do not own the characters of the movie _Prince of Persia_...But wouldn't it be wonderful if I did? Those student loans would be out the door and standing in line at the soup kitchen. ;)

AN: Well, hello! This is my first little dabble into _Prince of Persia_, which is currently my favorite movie. I've been reading plenty of the stories out there (are there really only 70 of them? that is immensely sad) and have decided to write one of my own. I especially like the fics that concentrate on the bond between the brothers. That was my favorite aspect of the movie, so that's what I will be concentrating on throughout this fic (though Tamina does make a few guest appearances). So, thank you for picking my fic to read! And I hope you enjoy. :)

Chapter One:

Once called the _Lion of Persia_, he is now simply known as _The Ghost_. He wanders the corridors like a spirit not yet ready to release its hold on the land of the living. His eyes, before so full of a lust for life, are now dulled by an indescribable and incomprehensible pain. Staring for miles and miles, he never sees what is truly in front of him.

"Has he said anything since his return?" Tus asks quietly, watching as his youngest brother trudges past without so much as an acknowledgment of his presence.

"Not a word," Garsiv replies, gaze following Dastan as well as lines crease the skin on his forehead and around his mouth. He has been frowning much as of late, the youngest of the Persian princes being the source of both aggravation and worry.

"He left Alamut quite suddenly," Tus explains, confusion apparent on his face. "The princess was less than pleased."

"Well, it is not everyday that a woman of her stature is proposed to and abandoned within the same hour." The middle brother shrugs as if Dastan's actions are to be expected. "Is it not reasonable to be anxious after one's first betrothal? I seem to remember a certain prince who hid in his bed chamber for several days after father's announcement of his eldest son's engagement to a very beautiful princess." Garsiv cannot help the smirk that follows his words, though the gesture does little to abate the concerned look in his glinting eyes.

"This . . . ." The older of the two shakes his head, sighing as Dastan disappears around a corner. "This is no anxiousness, brother. Something is plaguing him. It weighs him down as if his very soul has been ripped from his body. That—" He points in the direction that the young man has gone. "—is not Dastan."

Garsiv's gaze follows his brother's finger, and he grinds his teeth before asking, "What must be done?"

"Our answer," Tus says, determination coloring his words thickly, "lies in Alamut." The brothers exchange a look. "With Princess Tamina."

0 o 0 o 0

He can feel his insides burning, smothered by flame and smoke. The air around him is constantly being consumed; he can barely breathe. His mind screams _Fire! Fire! _but his body does nothing to comply, his mouth says nothing to those around him.

He felt it the moment he had returned from the time before this one, this feeling of hopelessness. He'd been sure it would pass once he righted things, once he saw the princess and explained to her what had happened. But as their conversation in the garden progressed, so did the endless pit growing in his chest; and when he'd determined that the heat radiating from within was not merely from the sun overhead, he had turned and run like a coward, afraid to subject this curse on anyone else.

Suffering in silence, his only ease is movement—aimless drifting to soothe the ache. Something is wrong; he his no longer the man he was before. The dagger, the _Sands of Time_, Tamina, his uncle, the death of his father and brothers. He understands why he must carry this burden, suffer the nightmares even during the day. It is his duty, his trial, to bear the weight of these unknown events.

Whispers swivel at the edge of his hearing.

"—_since his return?"_

"_Not a word."_

"—_left Alamut—princess...less than pleased."_

Tamina, his betrothed. How could he have left her? After everything they have been through? Everything she does not remember? Is that why he feels this way? Because only he remembers? Only _he _remembers failing to save his father? Holding his brothers' lifeless bodies? Watching Tamina fall to darkness? If this is his punishment, it is cruel and horrifying and . . . deserved.

"—_plaguing him...weighs him down...soul has been ripped—" _

The final words he hears before he deadens himself completely from the outside world cause him great distress and enough grief to allow a final unheard sob to escape his throat.

"_That is not Dastan."_

He cannot agree more and wishes with all his heart that someone would end his misery.

0 o 0 o 0

Tus and Garsiv ride to Alamut as if a demon is on their trail, which is not far from the truth. Dastan's life hangs in the balance, and time is not in their favor. When they stop, it is only for a moment so that the horses might get a cool drink from an oasis and so that the brothers might discuss their strategy.

"What do we tell the princess when we arrive?" Garsiv asks breathlessly, blinking sand out of his eyes. He pats his horse with appreciation, relieved that it is up to the task of riding for hours at their attempt to make the two-day journey as short as possible.

Tus splashes water on his face and sighs, shaking his head. "We tell her the truth—that something is wrong with our brother."

The younger man huffs his disapproval and crosses his arms. "She is already displeased. What makes you think she will help him? _If _she can help him?"

"She will."

Tus sounds so certain that Garsiv's eyes narrow and he strides to his brother with determination, asking, "What do you know that I do not?"

The future king chuckles and grabs his horse's reigns, pulling the reluctant animal from the water and mounting it. He looks down at Garsiv, who has to squint against the high sun to see the smirk gracing Tus's face. "I know a great many things that you do not, brother. A _great_ many things."

Garsiv growls and pulls his own horse from the oasis, climbing into the saddle and starting after the older man's already disappearing figure.

0 o 0 o 0

Their arrival at Alamut is not met with celebration or warmth. In fact, many of the holy city's people are quiet and reserved, as if they are in mourning.

"You," Tus says firmly, dismounting his horse and pointing to a woman carrying a basket of linens into the palace, "what is going on here? Where is the princess?"

The woman frowns and shifts the basket that is balanced on her head. It is obviously very heavy, and she is obviously in no mood to talk to the princes who raided her home. But she speaks anyway out of respect for her lady. "The princess has shut herself away in the palace tower, your highness. She speaks to no one but her closest adviser."

"We need an audience with her immediately," Garsiv states, his words harsh and blunt.

The woman scowls. "I told you, she speaks to no one—"

"This concerns her husband-to-be, our younger brother," Tus explains quickly, holding up his hands as if to show he is no threat. "Please, his life is at stake."

The servant's scowl falters, and she glances between the two men warily. They seem sincere, and in the brief time that their city has known the princes of Persia, the brothers have seemed honest enough. And even if the lady is still angry at her husband-to-be, she would still want to know if his life were in danger.

Setting down her basket, she nods hesitantly, saying, "Come with me."

0 o 0 o 0

The king watches quietly as his youngest son enters the garden, his heart falling as he does not receive the warm greeting that he has become so accustomed to when interacting with Dastan. The boy has become lost, his body a hollow shell compared to the stories Sharaman has been hearing. The name the king's subjects called Dastan upon his arrival at Alamut, the _Lion of Persia_, had made the old man laugh with a great sense of pride. His adopted son, whom he has never loved any less than Tus and Garsiv, is fierce and brave and unafraid.

This . . . This husk that wallows in misery is nothing like his Dastan, nothing like the lion he has heard tales about from his soldiers. Even Garsiv has managed to tell a few stories about his brother, and Tus has not stopped raving about the young man's courage and valor.

The king is very happy to hear such things, gladdened that his sons' bond seems strong . . . as strong as he thought he and his own brother were. The thought of Nizam brings a great ache to his heart, and he is ashamed to think badly of his brother, even if the man was bent on betraying him and his sons.

After a moment, in which the old man sighs and collects his thoughts—he must concentrate on the now, where his beloved son needs him—he steps carefully into the garden, intent on finding the answers to Dastan's ailment.

"My son," Sharaman says softly, coming up beside the young man and taking his arm in a careful grasp. Before, Dastan would have been startled, to his great embarrassment and annoyance; the blood and instincts of an orphan on the streets still run through his veins, the paranoia of being stabbed in the back being the only thing that has kept him alive for so long. This time, Sharaman's youngest does not react at all except to stop when his father tugs insistently. The old man forces a smile and pats Dastan's shoulder. "Walk with me, please."

Dastan does not so much walk alongside him as allow himself to be pulled against his will. The king acts as if he does not notice. "Dastan, you are troubled." He waits for an affirmation to his words, sighing when silence lingers between them.

Lush ferns brush against their legs as they continue towards the center of the courtyard. Such plants are a luxury in a world vast with sand. When the two reach the fountain at the center of the garden, the king circles it halfway.

"Sit with me, Dastan," he insists, gently pulling the young man down beside him as he lowers himself onto the edge of the stone fountain. The king takes a moment to look up over his shoulder at the stone sculpture of a woman smiling down at a small girl who clutches at her dress.

"It was built by my father's father; a gift for the fifth and most-beloved wife taken by the king at the time," he says softly, a smile playing on his pale lips. "She died during the birth of their second child, a daughter who drowned in the fountain just before her third year. In a fit of rage and despair, the king ordered the fountain destroyed, unable to stand the sight of it." He glances at Dastan out of the corner of his eye, gauging the young man's reaction. Dastan merely stares ahead at nothing, blinking slowly and swaying slightly in the morning breeze. "He believed it cursed," Sharaman continues quietly. "When restless sleep claimed him, he dreamed of his wife and daughter, and they begged him not to destroy the beautiful structure, not to live in suffering until he festered into a bitter man. The king promised them, stopping the fountain's destruction just as the first strike was to be made. Instead, he made the fountain a tribute to his beautiful girls, replacing the centerpiece with a statue of them. To this day, the fountain stands strong and unweathered, as if only constructed the day before."

Sharaman has always loved stories, especially those with truth to them, and this is one of his favorites—one of Dastan's favorites, too. When he was a boy, he would ask to hear it every night before he fell asleep.

Frowning and turning back to his youngest son, the king sighs. He has not told his youngest son such stories at his bedside for a long time, and he doubts very much that he will ever again. He takes the young man's face in his weathered hands, forcing his son to look at him. "Dastan," he whispers desperately, tears welling in his eyes, "I am your father." Something flickers in the other's eyes, and he holds his breath, attempting to subdue the hope swelling in his heart. "Please, my son. Please speak to me."

0 o 0 o 0

"—_speak to me."_

Dastan cannot refuse his father, the man who saved him from a life of poverty and starvation. The muscles in his throat spasm as he tries to swallow. He is so parched. When was the last time he had something to drink? To eat? When was the last time he spoke to anyone?

Time has no meaning anymore.

The thought strikes something within him, and before he can stop himself, a sound bubbles up from his throat and spills past his lips.

0 o 0 o 0

Sharaman is startled at the noise that echoes around the courtyard walls. Laughter—hysterical and desperate and so close to a sob that the king is not quite certain for a moment if it really _is_ laughter. His hands remain on Dastan's face, soaking in his son's tears as they breach his carefully-constructed barrier. And then Dastan really is sobbing, his face twisting painfully. Sharaman pulls the prince's head to his shoulder, one hand shifting to the back of the young man's head and fingers stringing through his long, thick hair.

"Father," Dastan cries, his voice muffled by the fabric of the king's shirt. "It hurts. Gods, it hurts!"

"What hurts?" the king soothes, becoming more and more alarmed as his son suddenly clutches his clothing like he used to when he was younger and afraid of the sounds made by the desert storms. "What pains you, Dastan?"

0 o 0 o 0

"_What hurts?"_

Everything. Everything hurts. Dastan cannot tell one moment from the next. It all blurs into agony. This is why he has trapped himself away, buried himself so fully—the pain is too much.

"_What pains you, Dastan?"_

Everything. Everything pains him. Memories that shouldn't exist but do, memories that should exist but don't. And Dastan does not know which is worse—the memory of his family's hatred toward him or of Tamina's love. Confronting her that first time since his return to the beginning of such heartache and seeing no recognition or trust in her eyes was enough to bring about the end of his world.

But apparently the gods have not punished him enough just yet.

0 o 0 o 0

"My lady," the Alamut servant says softly, kneeling before the princess and bowing her head.

"Sasha," Tamina responds with as warm a smile as she can muster, nodding her permission for the woman to rise. "What brings you?"

"Princes, your highness," Sasha says reluctantly, watching as the other woman's eyes darken. "From Persia."

Tamina turns her head away from the servant angrily. "I do not wish to see that traitorous bastard again. Send him away."

"Not Prince Dastan, my lady," Sasha explains, careful with her words. "The two eldest, Prince Tus and Prince Garsiv."

This peaks the princess's interest but also churns her anger further. So Dastan would send his brothers to clean up his mess? To temper his raging wife-to-be? Well, they will see how _tempered_ she will be once she is through with them.

"Very well," Tamina says evenly, narrowing her eyes at the door. "Give them entrance."

Sasha nods and bows before scurrying to the doors, opening them to reveal two dusty, disheveled princes. Tamina's resolve wavers as they approach swiftly, and her eyebrows rise high on her forehead when they fall to their knees.

"Your highness," the eldest prince speaks first, his breaths spilling in stuttered gasps, "we beg your assistance."

Attempting to regain some composure, the princess tightens her grip on the throne's arms, her knuckles turning white with the action. "What has happened?"

"It is Dastan," Garsiv states gruffly, looking as though kneeling before her causes him physical pain. "He . . . Something is not right with him."

"How so?"

Tus and Garsiv share a worried look. "He wanders the palace in anguish. He will not eat or drink or sleep," Tus explains with some reluctance. "Our attempts to assuage him go unnoticed."

"And unappreciated," Garsiv mutters, wincing as his brother jabs him in the ribs with his elbow. "He acts . . . He acts as if his very soul has been broken."

The princess looks away in thought, her lips pursing pensively. "Tell me," she says softly, her eyes donning a far-away glaze. "Has Dastan spoken of the dagger he returned to me the day your army invaded my city?"

The middle brother grits his teeth in annoyance, ready to stand and storm from the palace in a rage. This woman knows nothing about what is happening to their brother. They are wasting their time when Dastan could be dying.

Before he can make such a rash decision, however, Tus places a soothing hand on his shoulder, asking, "What does this have to do with our brother, princess?"

Tamina's gaze falls on the men once more, and her eyes flash dangerously. "It may have everything to do with him." She stands and nods to them, acknowledging that they should do the same. "You must bring him here, to me."

"You know what is wrong with him?" Garsiv demands as he and his brother rise to their feet. "Why must he come here?"

"Garsiv," Tus admonishes, turning to the woman standing tall and proud at her throne. "What my brother means is . . . Dastan may not do well with such a journey."

"He _must_ come here," Tamina insists boldly, allowing the men a glimpse of just how worrisome the situation is. "His _life _depends on it."

0 o 0 o 0

The prince's screams can be heard throughout the palace, now. And as Garsiv rides aggressively through his city's gate, his stomach churns at the thought that he may be too late.

"Father!" he shouts as he bursts through his younger brother's bedchamber door, finding the old king sitting dutifully at Dastan's bedside. He runs and collapses at Sharaman's side, his face and clothes caked with sand and desert dust as his chest heaves with exertion.

"Garsiv?" the older man asks with worry, reaching out and placing a hand on his middle son's shoulder. "What has put you in such a state? You have returned so soon from Alamut?"

"Father," Garsiv wheezes, taking a moment to catch his breath. When he is unsuccessful, he continues breathlessly. "I must take Dastan back with me to the holy city. The princess has a way to help him."

The king nods without hesitation. "I shall arrange for your departure." He signals to one of the servants, but Garsiv quickly grabs his father's arm in a trembling but firm grasp.

"No." He shakes his head, coughing against the burning in his lungs. "I must take him with me now, on horse."

Sharaman's eyes widen, and he looks to Dastan, who writhes under his bedding, crying out hoarsely. "But . . . He is in no state—"

"There is no time," Garsiv says with regret, eyeing his brother fleetingly. His lips draw into thin lines, and he looks back to his father desperately. "Please, I must take him. He has no hope unless he leaves with me now."

The king finds truth in his son's panic-laden eyes, and with a reluctant gesture to the servants, he says, "Dress him. He is leaving with Garsiv."

0 o 0 o 0

Sharaman sees his sons off with a sense of dread, only able to convince his son to take those army men who are ready to leave as soon as he is. Dastan sits languidly in front of Garsiv on the horse he has stolen from his brother countless times. It is the fastest, even with an extra man to carry, and no one in the palace would trust any other horse to carry their princes in such a time of crisis.

Garsiv grips the reigns with one hand, holding his brother against him with his other arm. Strange how Dastan's back molds so perfectly to his chest, as if they are cast from the same stone despite their different birthings.

As soon as the younger man is settled, Garsiv offers his father one last look before digging his heels into the horse's flanks and starting off at full gallop toward their only hope.

AN: I'm thinking four or five chapters...though it could very well be only two or three, depending on how much I get written tonight and where I decide to leave you next time. ;) Next chapter up soon! More Dastan angst to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Death of a Ghost**

Summary: Things have been set right. But Dastan and his brothers will soon learn that the dagger does not give without taking in return. Dastan's very soul may be at stake.

AN: Hello again! And thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I am so happy that this story seems to be getting at least a little attention. :) I am sorry that I have not reviewed to many of you. Work has been so hectic lately that I just haven't had time to really sit down and write, but I promise that I will reply for this next chapter! I hope you enjoy it. I still can't tell whether this is going to be three or four chapters long...We'll see, I guess.

Chapter Two:

Dastan has never been to the ocean. Since he was young, he has watched sailors visit their Persian city, has seen their greatest carpenters construct boats and their most-skilled seamstresses sew sails for adventures far beyond his imagination. But the closest he has ever been to feeling the gentle lull of waves, smelling salty sea air, watching the sun set on a landless horizon, is his own bath.

The sensation he feels now, the relentless rocking, is what he imagines the ocean would be like; his back against the mast, the wind blowing his hair around wildly, water splashing against his face as wave after wave licks at the ship.

"_Dastan?" _

He can hear gulls circling overhead, their distant cries calling him to the sky. A chilly swell of air sweeps across his body, and he shivers, swallowing the salt coating the back of his parched throat.

"_Dastan! Brother, please . . . ."_

He sways with the ship, his legs gaining familiarity of the motion as time passes. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous, but he breathes in and out slowly, concentrating on the smells, the feelings, the sounds—

"_You must wake! Listen to me! You must wake now, Dastan!"_

0 o 0 o 0

Garsiv tries in vain to stir his younger brother. A massive sand storm rages outside their small tent, and the middle prince doubts very much that Dastan would be able to hear him even if he were lucid enough to understand him. The troupe is less than half a day's ride to Alamut. Garsiv grits his teeth and clenches his hands into fists as he realizes that if not for the storm, they could be closer to help.

_Perhaps_, he scoffs to himself, glancing briefly down at his sleeping brother. The princess could very well have nothing to offer them once she actually examines Dastan. Or this could be a lie, a trick, a trap, or any of a hundred schemes to get Dastan into the holy city again. What is it about this young man that seems to tempt the anger of the very gods themselves? Garsiv shakes his head. _Perhaps the very thing that made our father pick you from a crowd of hundreds, that made us accept you like a brother. _

Dastan whimpers, his hands fisting the sand serving as the floor of their tent. How long ago was it that their father had brought this street orphan to them? Ten years? Fifteen? Garsiv barely remembers; with Dastan, time seems to bleed into one very long series of troubling situations.

"_What is he doing here?"_

"_Garsiv," Sharaman scolds, placing a hand on Dastan's shoulder and squeezing with encouragement as his sons study the boy carefully. _

_At thirteen years of age, Garsiv is already tall and lean. His lanky limbs sprout the beginnings of firm muscles, which he attempts to show now by crossing his arms and flexing them intimidatingly. "Is he any good with a sword?"_

_The king smiles down at Dastan warmly. "I am sure with your excellent training he will be just as skilled as you are, my son." Garsiv scoffs and looks away dismissively—the only approval that Dastan will receive for the moment—which leaves Tus with the final say. _

_While three years older than his brother, Tus is shorter than Garsiv. His body is not well-toned, but what he lacks in physical strength, he more than makes up for in intelligence and wit. A king must be strong not only of the body but of the mind as well. _

"_My name is Tus," the young prince says carefully, examining the boy he is now to call brother. _

_Dastan is scrawny and small for his ten years, but he has a hard look in his eyes. More than that, his look is fearless and directed straight at the eldest son. Very few people—men and women alike—have the courage to look a future king in the eye. This boy does so without hesitation, and Tus, wise as he is, knows he needs someone like Dastan. Someone who will not be afraid to disagree with him and offer an honest opinion. _

"_Have you seen the garden, Dastan?"_

_The boy shakes his head and takes Tus's hand when it is offered to him—the first sign of trust between an orphan-turned-prince and his new family. _

Garsiv shakes the memory from his thoughts with a frown. Sometimes he wishes that he had accepted Dastan so easily into their home. Perhaps if he had, there would not be such a strong, albeit brotherly, rivalry between them.

It had taken several weeks before the middle prince had come to understand why the king had chosen Dastan as their brother. The young man has a good spirit. As great as he is as a strategist and soldier, he is just as passionate about doing what is right and fighting for what he believes in—even if it means fighting his own family.

Garsiv looks down at his brother, surprised to find the young man awake and staring at him through half-lidded eyes. "Dastan!" He leans over the other prince, eyes shining with relief. "Are you all right?"

At first, Dastan says nothing, and Garsiv's insides twist in disappointment. But after the younger man draws in a long, labored breath, he speaks in a quiet, reserved tone.

"I didn't kill father."

Garsiv is taken aback by the statement. Of all the things he expected to hear from his brother, that is certainly not one of them. Before he can compose himself and react to the words, Dastan continues.

"It was Nizam. You must believe me. I would never—"

Garsiv places a gentle hand on Dastan's shoulder, not missing the way his brother flinches from his touch. "Of course you did not kill father, Dastan," he assures. "He is unharmed, awaiting your safe return to the palace once you are well again."

Dastan closes his eyes, attempting to swallow and finding his tongue too thick and his mouth too dry. "I will never be well again."

The older man scowls deeply and uncaps his water skin, raising Dastan up so that he may drink from it. After a small amount of water—much less than Garsiv wishes his brother would drink—Dastan settles back against the warm sand and sighs.

"Princess Tamina is waiting for us in Alamut," Garsiv explains as if the younger man had asked. "She says she knows a way to help you."

"She is lying," Dastan says with such quiet certainty that doubt begins to creep into Garsiv's mind. "She only wants answers."

"What answers?"

Dastan shrugs tiredly. "About the dagger, I would assume."

"What dagger?" Garsiv questions. This is the most that Dastan has said in many, many days, and if the elder prince can keep him talking, he may just find an answer to one of the several questions plaguing his thoughts. Dastan, however, speaks no more, his eyes closing slowly as he falls into restless sleep once again.

_He said 'the dagger,' _Garsiv thinks to himself, settling beside his brother and keeping one ear to the sounds of the sand storm. He searches his mind for memories of what Dastan could be speaking of. The young prince has owned many daggers throughout the years, but none that the princess would know about. Closing his eyes, he is sure that the answer is there, sure that he knows what Dastan is attempting to tell him, and just as he falls into the cusp of sleep, he remembers—but his exhaustion is too great a force to allow him to rouse and think on the matter further.

0 o 0 o 0

The storm continues through the night, waning only in the morning and allowing the first streaks of sunlight to warm the sands to a scorching temperature. When Garsiv wakes, it is to a quiet and _empty_ tent. And as soon as he realizes that Dastan is not where he was the night before, he scrambles to his feet, kicking up sand and nearly toppling the tent before he makes it outside.

"Dastan!" he calls over the last of the storm. A few gusts of wind still toss up sand in protest, forcing Garsiv to squint and cover his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. His gaze sweeps what little desert he can see, which isn't much, but with the dwindling storm, every moment reveals more and more. Unfortunately, it also reveals that Dastan does not seem to be in the immediate area.

Several guards rush to him, cloths covering the lower half of their faces. Their eyes watch him expectantly, awaiting orders. Had _none _of them seen the youngest prince wander from their tent?

"Find Dastan!" Garsiv yells angrily, more frustrated with himself and his entourage than his brother. The men bow slightly and start off in different directions, each hoping that the young prince has not wandered far. Garsiv is known for his brutality in battle against his enemies. If Dastan is not found—and soon—they can only hope that the sand storm finishes them before the angry prince shows them just what kind of brutality he reserves for those who fail him and his family.

0 o 0 o 0

"Mother!" Dastan calls, struggling to stay on his feet as he squints against the sand swirling around his lone form. He turns around several times, making his dizziness worse and having to close his eyes to center himself before beginning his search again. "Mother! Where are you?"

_Dastan! _

A woman's voice wafts on the wind, surrounding him, teasing him. He does not know in which direction it is coming from, and his frustration heightens. How he knows the voice belongs to his mother, he is not entirely certain, but it _is _her. It has to be.

"Mother, I can't . . . I don't know how to . . . Help me! Help me, please!" Sand stings his eyes, and tears begin to slip down his dust-caked cheeks, leaving streaks in their wake. When was the last time he saw her? The market square—just after his sixth year. She was buying bread, smiling as she spoke with the vender about the good harvest that year. Wheat was becoming plentiful, and prices were lowering little by little. Dastan could actually enjoy more than one meal a day.

And then she was gone, her satchel lying in a crumpled heap on the dusty street and the bread stomped into crumbs. Bandits—slave-traders. They had stolen her from a crowded market, and no one said anything, not a word. No one offered help, ignoring his cries until he became annoying and was slapped away.

_Mama! Mama! Someone took my mama! Mama! _

"Mother!" Dastan's voice grows weak, hoarse, and he coughs up the sand collecting on his tongue and at the back of his throat. "M-Mother! Help me! I can't find you! I can't see you!" A coughing fit brings him to his knees, and he covers his mouth and nose by pulling the collar of his shirt up and over his face. He feels as if he is six again, helpless and desperate and without hope. All he wants is his mother—her cool hand in his as she smiles down at him and asks him playfully if he loves her. And of course he loves her; she is his mother, his everything.

And now his everything is gone.

0 o 0 o 0

Garsiv checks behind him to make sure that the camp is still within sight. If he loses it, he may not find it again until the storm finally settles completely, and who knows how long that will take? Right now, his main concern is finding Dastan, and the longer he and his men spend looking for the young prince, the less chance they have of reaching Alamut in time.

Last night had been . . . _strange_, to say the least. How can Dastan think he killed their father? And what about the young prince's reaction to a very rare moment of comfort on Garsiv's part? Dastan has never shown fear, never admitted defeat even when the odds were against him. But the Dastan that approached their uncle in a sea of celebrating soldiers had been afraid, had been shaking from more than mere exertion. And their troubles had not started until after they had met that _princess _and Dastan had returned that—

Garsiv stops in his tracks, a thought occurring to him quite suddenly.

The dagger, the one Dastan had acquired sometime during the raid; is that what the young prince had been talking about the night before? Yes, of course! Garsiv had the answer just as he had fallen asleep. How could he have forgotten such a fine detail? And if Dastan is right, if all the princess wants is answers, then how will the younger man get any better?

_Damn you, Dastan! _Garsiv has no time to feel guilty about the thought. If the youngest prince were not busy being trapped in his own misery, they could be nearing the holy city by now.

Dastan now seems part of an ever greater mystery. And the only way to solve it is to find that dagger.

0 o 0 o 0

When Garsiv finds Dastan, it is initially with a sense of relief, then a growing anger, and finally a gnawing worry; all before he is even able to reach the young man.

"Dastan?" he asks the still man carefully, walking around into his brother's line of sight to make sure he does not startle him, then leaning down to settle in front of him. "Why did you leave the camp?"

Dastan's eyes remain distant when he answers, his voice small and defeated. Garsiv must strain to hear it above the sands. "I'm looking for my mother."

Garsiv sighs and puts a hand on the younger prince's shoulder, intent on consoling him. When they were younger, Dastan would have nightmares about his mother's abduction. Garsiv's own mother had died during childbirth, and he did not know enough about mothers to sympathize. But Dastan had seemed so shaken by the incident that Garsiv had grudgingly allowed the boy to climb into his bed after a particularly bad night.

And when the nightmares had stopped, when Dastan had no longer needed the comfort of his adoptive brother—not Tus, whom he seemed to take to more easily—Garsiv refused to believe that this was the cause of his disappointment.

When Dastan flips the older man onto the ground, pinning him to the sand, Garsiv knows he should not be surprised. No one sneaks up on the young prince without suffering some kind of consequence. But in the short time that he was able to speak to their father at the palace, the middle prince had learned of Dastan's waning instincts.

The look on the young man's face now—one that holds no recognition or coherency—means danger.

"What have you done with her?" Dastan snarls into his brother's face, seeing not Garsiv but the faces of a thousand thieves that could have taken his mother. "Tell me! Or I'll break your neck!"

"Dastan," the older man chokes the name out, a difficult task considering the grip the other has on his throat. "Brother . . . _please_."

Dastan's grip loosens and leaves his neck, making Garsiv believe that his brother has finally seen reason. When he rights himself, however, he finds several of his men holding the struggling young man down.

"Release him!" he shouts hoarsely, rubbing at the sore muscles beneath the skin of his neck. The men hesitate, giving Garsiv time to scramble forward and take his brother's face in both hands. "Dastan, listen to me," he hisses harshly, jerking the young man's head slightly to get his attention. It seems to work; Dastan's struggling abates, and his gaze centers on Garsiv's eyes. "You are my brother. You are in the desert, and we are on our way to see Tus and Princess Tamina in Alamut."

Garsiv sees a small spark of recognition in Dastan's eyes and presses on in the hope of regaining enough of the young man's trust to get them where they need to be. "Dastan, do you remember? Speak, you half-wit. We must go before the winds change and bring the storm back to us!"

Dastan breathes heavily, looking around in confusion before sagging into the hold that the surrounding men have on him. "Garsiv?" he asks tiredly, and the older prince relaxes.

"Yes, brother."

"Do you know where my mother is?"

Garsiv's heart stings with unfamiliar sadness and guilt at what he is about to do. "Yes, Dastan. We are on our way to see her now." He grits his teeth when Dastan nods and accepts the lie, content for the time being. Setting a dangerous look on the soldiers still clutching his brother, Garsiv says, "Go."

0 o 0 o 0

Their arrival to Alamut this time is met by several servants from the palace, Tus, and the princess herself. Garsiv, weather-beaten and exhausted, gratefully allows the youngest prince to be taken from him by awaiting hands.

"We were worried when the storm passed through," Tus explains, looking Dastan over with a critical eye before doing the same with Garsiv as he helps him down from the tired horse. The middle prince's muscles are stiff and aching, and he winces when his knees crack as he dismounts.

"We survived," he says simply, watching as his unresponsive younger brother is whisked away to the palace.

"How is he?" the future king asks softly, bracing himself for bad news.

Garsiv considers his options with a practiced caution, frowning and offering no more than, "Not well."

Tus grabs his brother's arm and spins him around so that they face one another, his eyebrows furrowing as he spits, " 'Not well'? Garsiv, our brother may very well be _dying_, and all you have to say is that he is _not well_?"

The younger man pulls his arm out of his brother's grasp and straightens his tired body, standing at his full height—which he is satisfied to find is quite a bit taller than his older brother. "If you want to know how our brother _really_ is, Tus," he says in a low, cold voice, "you would be better to ask _her_." He points an accusing finger at the princess, who stands off to the side waiting for them.

"Princess?" Tus asks with confusion, glancing between Garsiv's glare and Tamina's wide eyes.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demands indignantly, her hands forming fists at her sides. "What do you accuse me of? I am trying to _help_ him!" She spins on her heels and starts towards the palace, but Garsiv hurries to cut her off, shaking from exhaustion.

"_You_," he says breathlessly, "will not touch one hair on his head until we are assured that your intentions for our brother are not only for your personal gain."

"How _dare_ you!" Tamina hisses, looking to Tus for assistance. "He is not _only_ your brother now. He is my _betrothed_, and I would not see him harmed to gain _anything_!"

"That is not what he believes," Garsiv counters in a low voice, his energy beginning to diminish now that his anger is dying.

Tamina falters, pursing her lips and carefully asking, "And what is it that he believes?"

"My lady!" a voice shouts from behind them, and the three turn to find a very frightened-looking servant running in their direction.

"Sasha?" Tamina questions, holding out her hands as the woman comes to an abrupt halt in front of them, breathing harshly. "What is it? What has happened?"

"You must come with me," Sasha demands, her gaze sweeping over them wildly. "You must _all_ come at once! It is Prince Dastan!" Without any further explanation, the servant woman turns and scurries off back towards the palace, hoping that the three have enough sense to follow.

0 o 0 o 0

Dastan believes he can see the world from here—this tower that rises above the desert as if created from the very sand itself. He can see people and buildings. The sun glints off of every grain of sand, making the desert surrounding them sparkle. When he sees sights like this, he does not remember why he has been craving to see the ocean. Why would he want to see something like that when he has this beautiful sight?

His wandering gaze does not stop at the horizon. Closing his eyes, his mind travels further; across more desert, past oases, and continuing over the land of the slaves that people seem to be so frightened of. Dastan smiles as he recalls his friend, Sheik, and his beloved ostriches. Perhaps now that the business man has not met him, he can remain happy with his races and his life as a faux slave-trader.

Beyond that the Persian palace that Dastan has lived in for many years, the home that was almost taken from him because of that damned dagger. Granted, it was the reason he had been able to fix everything; but without its mystery and power, their uncle might not have gone after it in the first place. And where would they be now? Would Nizam still be harboring ill feelings for his brother? Would he find another way to make himself king?

Dastan has not traveled much farther than the palace, but he imagines that after their home lies more glistening desert, then rugged mountains that tower high over any palace that has ever been built, then the ocean, vast and blue and calling his name . . .

_Dastan._

_Dastan._

"Dastan!"

0 o 0 o 0

When Tus and Garsiv enter the tower room, their hearts seem to stop at the sight. Dastan, their brave younger brother, stands on the balcony wall, looking out over the holy city. Many of the servants stand at the ready, approaching him carefully and with soft calls of "Prince Dastan!" and "Please, your highness!"

The young man wavers on his feet, causing a hush to fall over the room.

"Dastan!" Tus calls, starting forward and stopping only when he hears Dastan's soft voice.

"Mother?"

The eldest prince holds his breath and glances back at Garsiv, who offers no more than a grim look. Turning back to their young brother, Tus's heart leaps as the _Ghost of Persia_ takes a step out into—nothing.

"Dastan!" he cries, surging forward and grasping the thin fabric of the young man's shirt before they both topple over the side of the balcony.

AN: Wow! What a cliffie. Even I thought that was a little cruel...Stay tuned for the next chapter! I have the next few days off, so it shouldn't be long before it's posted! Later, gators. Catch you on the flip side. :D


	3. Chapter 3

**The Death of a Ghost**

Summary: Things have been set right. But Dastan and his brothers will soon learn that the dagger does not give without taking in return. Dastan's very soul may be at stake.

AN: Wow! Sorry for the delay on this story, Kats and Kittens. Things have been very, very busy for me. I am officially moved into the new apartment! Still have quite a few boxes to unpack, but I _do _have a bed (no more sleeping on the floor), and it is wonderful. I wrote most of this story on my down time, poolside. I have a very nasty sunburn to prove it, too. And the ending was actually written at an Earl May while the Mom-Boss was getting flowers for our new deck. I will try and get pictures onto my livejournal and post a link in the next chapter. ;) Speaking of, this chapter is considerably shorter than the last two, so I'm sorry for that, and the cliff hanger is a doozy too, so I'm _very_ sorry for that. More soon, definitely! Hopefully by Friday at the latest. Thank you very much for the reviews! I love you all! Enjoy this next chappie. :)

Chapter Three:

Dastan is drowning.

The more he struggles against his black prison, the farther under he is dragged. The young prince has never drowned before, at least not that he knows of—unless a large mug of his favorite ale counts. He has drowned himself in plenty of those. As the youngest of the three princes, he has never had to show any kind of restraint, any kind of proper showmanship. It isn't expected of him because he has no obligations except to be brother of the future king. The particularly nasty gossips attribute his behavior to his upbringing before he joined the royal family. And perhaps that is part of it. But when push comes to shove, Dastan is ever-loyal to his kind and his family.

When he was younger, he imagined that a life under water would be filled with adventure, with excitement and mystery. He didn't expect this. There is a pressure in his chest that tightens with every attempted breath. Each pull of air becomes shallower, more difficult to draw in than the last.

Dastan does not much like drowning. In fact, he thinks it is a perfectly horrible way to die.

0 o 0 o 0

Tus strains against the extra weight, one hand gripping Dastan's shirt, the other desperately clinging to smooth, well-crafted stone. Above him, several footsteps and shouts sound—the heart of them belonging to Garsiv. The middle prince appears over the side of the balcony, leaning down to him with an outstretched hand.

"Tus! Take my hand!"

The future king grunts, attempting to shift his weight and freezing when the sound of ripping fabric echoes from below him. He and Garsiv share a panicked look.

"Dastan!" Tus calls. "Dastan, take hold of me!" The young prince is just as unresponsive as he has been.

"Dastan! Take hold of Tus, or you'll kill the both of you!" Garsiv shouts angrily, reaching down further. His fingers just graze his older brother's wrist. He hates himself for the thought, but years of studying under his tutor's watchful eye have taught him that Tus's life must come first. As future king, Tus must be saved before anyone else—Dastan and Garsiv included—so if the middle prince cannot find a way to pull both his brothers to safety . . . he will have to tell Tus to let go of Dastan.

The thought spurs him forward, and he is able to grasp his elder brother's wrist as several hands grab him firmly around the middle and legs. "Hold on, Tus," he whispers breathlessly, willing his tired arms to hold out just a little longer.

Tus grips both of his brothers tightly, his muscles protesting the action and making their ache known. Dastan still hangs limply from his fingers, his dead weight threatening to tear the older man's arm from its socket. Looking up at the middle prince with a pained expression, the eldest brother murmurs, "_Hurry_, Garsiv."

The drop from the tower is frightening and will most certainly kill them, gods forbid something should go wrong. With Garsiv's waning strength, the worst may be yet to come.

0 o 0 o 0

The young prince hears shouting, vague and blurred. But of two things he is absolutely certain: the first is that the voices, even muffled by the surrounding darkness, are familiar, and the second is that he wishes they would find him and take him from this empty, suffocating place.

_Tus! _he shouts into the nothing. _Garsiv!_

His brothers have always been there to help him when he needs them most—usually it is the other way around, but on occasion it is Dastan who has to be dragged from the local ale house and thrown into his bed by a grudging Garsiv or a solemn Tus.

But if there has ever been a time he needed them the most, it is now, at this very moment.

"Das . . . ."

A voice breeches the dark, and Dastan's heart begins to pound wildly. Someone has found him here, someone has come to free him.

"Das . . . ."

The voice grows distant, and the young man panics, forcing his aching body to move, to fight for air and freedom.

"Dast . . . ."

It is strong again, _near_. He can almost recognize it now. The pressure on his chest lessens, his energy resurfaces. He is going to make it—he _has _to!

"Dastan!"

The name rings loudly in his ears, pulling him towards the surface. And when he breaks through the prison . . . .

0 o 0 o 0

. . . . he awakens to a terrifying world.

Heights do not bother Dastan—they never have. He was born for jumping off of rooftops and diving from beams and buildings. Even the fall is not what twists his stomach.

It is moments like these—when the height comes as a surprise, when the fall is unexpected . . . when the only thing standing between him and certain death is a flimsy, worn shirt and a waning grip. He looks up, seeing his brothers' desperate faces, hearing their argument about how to proceed and the tearing of fabric. Just as his shirt gives way, a cry ripping its way from Tus's throat, he reaches up and takes firm hold of his brother's wrist. Surprise etches the older men's faces as they look down at him.

"Dastan!" they both say at once—Tus's tone holds concern while Garsiv's emits relief covered by a strong amount of anger.

"Thank the gods," Tus breathes, latching onto his youngest brother's wrist and strengthening his grip.

"Do not thank them just yet, brother," Garsiv mutters, glancing around for a solution. "This balcony is too small to continue like this." And his strength is seriously declining. One moment longer, and he may not be able to hold both of them.

"He is right," Dastan says distantly, and the princes shift their attention to him. "Tus, you have to let me go."

Tus shakes his head emphatically, saying, "No. I will not."

"Tus—"

"Dastan, do not ask me to—"

"Tus," Garsiv interrupts gently, grunting as his older brother shifts to look up at him. The future king's eyes are laced with incredulity and hurt.

"Garsiv . . . _no_," he demands softly. "Please do not make me. We can do this."

"Tus!" Dastan calls again, trying to reason with the other man. Again, he is silenced.

"Dastan, for _once_ in your life," Tus spits, finally showing a bit of frustration towards the younger man, "_hold your tongue!_"

The young prince sighs, doing as he is told. One does not have many options when dangling from a _very_ high place. He listens as his brothers argue further.

"I _will not_ release him," Tus hisses, as if Dastan cannot hear him if he does so. The younger man might have laughed if the situation were not so dire. "I will not be responsible for his death."

"You are not responsible for _anything_ but Persia's future," Garsiv states, hating how the words taste on his tongue. They have been forced into his thoughts since he was old enough to read. To their father, not one of them is more important than the other; but to their people, Tus will always come first.

"And I will see that he is in it!" the eldest prince shouts with an authority that both Garsiv and Dastan are certain their father would be proud of.

Garsiv swallows hard, closing his eyes briefly and summoning the courage to beg the death of his younger brother. "Tus," he breathes, his tone conveying desperation and self-loathing, "I cannot lose both of you." He glances at Dastan around the older man. "And I am obligated to the future king of Persia." Dastan smiles weakly and nods his understanding.

Tus looks down at his brother—his _little_ brother—with a crescendo-ing sickness in his stomach. Dastan's eyes, which have been dead for so long, are now vibrant and full of trust. Trust for _him_, not a future king of Persia but an older brother. With a heavy heart he looks back up at Garsiv, slowly shaking his head as tears well in his eyes and his throat closes around his next words.

"I cannot."

Sweat glistens on Garsiv's red face, gliding down his arms hand slicking his palms. Even if his strength lasts, his grip will not. "Tus, you must make a decision. _Now_." Tus's wrist slips, and the middle prince finds himself holding the older man by his hand only. "Tus!"

"I have made my decision, Garsiv," the now not-so-future king says solemnly, watching as a pained look crosses the other's face. "And I trust you to do the right thing."

Garsiv cannot believe what he is hearing. Is his older brother suggesting that he would rather _die_ with Dastan than _live_ with him? But then Garsiv would be king . . . alone. His chest hitches at the thought, and Tus slips further, hanging from the middle prince's fingers.

"Tus . . . ." Garsiv tries one more time to persuade the other man, seeing in his brother's eyes that his plea is in vain. "Please—"

Tus's fingers slip free of Garsiv's hold.

0 o 0 o 0

They fall.

Dastan's heart skips a beat and his eyes narrow as a gust of air rushes up to meet them—or are they rushing down to meet _it_? Stretching his free arm out, his muscles tense, anticipating the pull they will suffer any moment.

His fingers clash against smooth, polished stone, and he grips tight, halting their descent.

0 o 0 o 0

Tus gasps as he slips from Garsiv's fingers, able to catch a brief glance at the middle prince's devastated look . . . before almost immediately jerking to a stop. It takes him a moment to determine what has happened, but when he looks up and sees Dastan, fingers tightened around a protruding ledge and eyes shining with a suppressed amusement, his entire being surges with relief.

"As I was trying to tell you, brother," the young man says lightly, something strange and indistinguishable hidden in his words, "as noble as your sacrifice is—or would have been—perhaps you can save it for another day." Dastan gives him a pointed look—quite a feat while dangling hundreds of lengths in the air. "Very, _very_ far into the future."

Tus's features darken, and he sets his jaw. "Dastan, we must speak."

The youngest prince tugs experimentally, gauging his strength and his brother's weight. Tus is in no way _large_, but he certainly doesn't go around jumping from rooftop to rooftop or sparring with Garsiv and the Persian army. Dastan is also not the one who has had to hold his brother's weight for an undetermined amount of time. Add the fact that he has also lost much of his former muscle over the days he has spent without food and sleep, and things do not seem in their favor.

"Perhaps we can save words for another time, Tus," the young man grunts, pouring all his strength into one pull and hefting his brother up until the older man is able to reach the ledge himself.

Tus grabs it gratefully, using another small ledge beneath them as a foothold to take some of the strain off of his arms. Sighing with relief, he closes his eyes and takes a moment to rest. The sound of his harsh breathing fills the small space beneath the balcony, and he rests his forehead against the cool stone.

"You should have told me," he murmurs into the ledge.

"You were fairly occupied," Dastan says with little feeling, a shrug in his words. "Intent on silencing me and arguing with Garsiv, so—"

"I meant about _you_," Tus interrupts as his head snaps up and he sets a dangerous look on his brother, his tone filled with more anger than he wants to express. He has never been so furious at the young man in all his life. "About _this_. How could you endanger your life like this?"

"You mean _your_ life?" the young man mumbles bitterly, searching their surroundings.

"It could very well have been anyone," Tus argues. "Garsiv nearly reached you before I did. Have you seen him? Have you been out of your self-pitying-induced state long enough to even _look_? He is _exhausted_, Dastan! Because of _you_! He has traversed the desert between our home and Alamut several times for your sake. It is a _miracle_ he was able to hold the both of us as long as he did. Do you think I could have done any better?"

Dastan is quiet for a moment, looking as if he is deep in thought about Tus's words. When he speaks, however, it is to say, "There are enough hand- and footholds to get to the balcony." He looks at the older man with blank eyes. "Do you have the strength to climb your way up?"

Tus scowls and shakes his head at the young prince. "You are a _coward_, Dastan."

The young man does not seem to be fazed outwardly, but his next words are soft and husky. "After you, brother."

A pang of guilt stings Tus's heart, and he opens his mouth to say something—_anything_. As he does, however, the words he wants to say stick to the back of his throat. So he merely reaches up and grabs the first hold, and the second, and the third, until finally Garsiv's frightened face comes into view.

"Tus!" the middle prince breathes, reaching down and grasping the man's arm.

Tus hesitates. "Perhaps . . . one of the men might be better suited to . . . ." The future king does not miss the hurt look in his brother's eyes as the other man nods and begins to turn. Tus grasps his hand lightly and gives him an imploring look. "It is not myself that I am worried about, Garsiv," he assures. "You are tired. Do not strain yourself."

Garsiv sighs, offering the man a tight smile and a nod before turning and allowing a Persian soldier to reach down and grasp Tus's arm.

0 o 0 o 0

His name is Faran. He has been in the Persian army since his seventeenth year, the same as his brother before him and their father before them. At twenty-seven years, he is brother-less and father-less and has learned much about battle and strategy and the bond between the Persian brothers. It is strong, unbreakable, just as his used to be with his older brother. And while the princes sometimes disagree, their father's wise words about family echo at the heart of their action.

So when Faran is told to pull Prince Tus from the balcony's ledge, he knows it is one of the most important tasks that Prince Garsiv has ever given him. And when the future king is safely out of harm's way, he turns to finish his assignment by pulling the youngest—and most precious—prince to meet his brothers. The sight that greets him, however, makes him pale and his breath catch in his throat.

0 o 0 o 0

Garsiv hugs his older brother to him tightly, blessed air surging into his lungs as relief washes over him. "I feared the worst," he whispers as Tus's arms surround him to reciprocate the action.

"I am not so easily rid of," Tus chuckles with a shaky amusement, swallowing hard and pulling back to stare his brother in the eye. "Dastan's luck has rubbed off on me after all, it seems."

Garsiv looks towards the balcony ledge, where nothing more is being done to bring the last of their trio to them. "Where is he?" he demands, unwanted worry creeping into his tone again. "Where is Dastan?"

The Persian soldier looking over the edge of the balcony turns to them, his eyes wide and his face pale as he says, "Your . . . Your majesties . . . ."

Tus and Garsiv share an alarmed look before pressing themselves to the ledge and leaning over. Garsiv's mouth slackens as disbelief surges up his throat and chokes a cry from him. Tus's breath hitches and barricades itself in his chest, refusing to release the burning pressure as they both stare on at the horrifying sight.

Below them—very, _very_ far below them—lies Dastan's broken body.

AN: Oh...dear... Uh, bye now?


	4. Chapter 4

**The Death of a Ghost**

Summary: Things have been set right. But Dastan and his brothers will soon learn that the dagger does not give without taking in return. Dastan's very soul may be at stake.

AN: So, it's been a little longer than I had originally hoped...Thanks bunches to _Lahearsa_, who got me into gear! I probably would have been absolutely stumped if not for you. I read your message, and I sat down and made myself write, and before I knew it, Chapter Four was written and ready to go! So, ya'll can give her a HOO-RAH for this one. ;)

Sidenote: Anything you see within /backslashes/ is a flashback or a memory. The _italics_ are just Tus's inner self-whumping. ;)

Anyway, it's 2 in the morning, and as much as I hate to post things without at least glancing through them, I am majorly exhausted and need to go to bed. So, I apologize in advance for any errors that you may come across. I just really wanted to get this posted. Thanks again to everyone who has been reviewing! I hope you are all getting my replies. :D Enjoy!

Chapter Four:

_You are a coward._

Tus turns, his back to the ledge, and slides down the smooth stone until he slumps to the ground. His unfocused eyes stare into nothing.

_You are a coward._

/When Dastan is eleven, Tus teaches him to read and write. The youngest prince is easily distracted and bored beyond measure, but Tus persists because even Dastan's tutors have given up on him.

"The alphabet is very simple, Dastan," Tus sighs with exhaustion, rubbing at his closed eyes, then peering down at the illegible mess on the young boy's parchment. "If you would pay attention for more than a mere moment, you might actually learn something."

Tus has known how to read and write since he was six. He had no idea how illiterate his father's people were. He will have to have a serious discussion about the number of available schools in their city. Education should not be solely for nobility, as their ancestors believed.

"Simple for _you_ and _Garsiv_," Dastan mutters, frowning at the symbols that Tus had drawn as a reference for him—pristine lines and loops converging to make words and phrases—and then at his own shaky, indistinguishable handwriting. "I was not meant to be a reader _or _a writer, Tus. Just give up on me, already."

Tus draws his eyebrows together and places a finger under Dastan's chin, pulling his face upward to meet his gaze. "Dastan," he says carefully, quietly, watching as a questioning look takes the boy's face, "you are a part of this family now—every bit as much as Garsiv and myself." He leans closer, giving a stern look to make his point. "And I will _never_ give up on you. No matter the circumstances."

Dastan smiles and sniffles lightly, picking up his quill, dipping it in the ink well to his left, and pressing the tip to a fresh piece of parchment./

_You are a coward._

The young man was not born of royal blood. He knows life on the streets, has seen the worst of humanity. When they were children, Dastan would entertain them with stories from his life before the palace. Robbers and murderers, thieves and magicians, slaves and lovers.

_You are a coward. _

/"Dastan, have you ever been in love?" Garsiv jokes one evening after the young prince has finished a story about a woman who fell in love with a man from the market and married him that very day.

Dastan laughs delightedly despite Garsiv's jibe and shakes his head. "A story for another night, brother." It is the first time he has called either of the boys as such, and something about the princes changes that night.

"Oh, come now! You must tell us!" Tus encourages amidst Garsiv's reenactment of Dastan's story and their father's chuckles. "You were really in love once?"

At twelve years, Dastan seems fairly young to have ever experienced such a large feeling, a feeling that neither Garsiv nor Tus have yet experienced themselves. But the look in his eyes says that this story is one that is begging to be told.

With a mischievous smile and a dramatic gesture, the young man starts his tale. "A great sandstorm was rolling in over the city, blanketing everything from view." He covers his eyes and moves his head around as if attempting to search in the dark. "I ran from the marketplace, dodging vendors who were desperately tying tarps over their stands. Fruit flew to the ground and rolled underfoot, tripping unsuspecting passers-by."

Dastan stands up tall and straight with a proud smirk on his face. "But I, with my astounding ability to sense everything around me, was able to avoid them." He jumps around lightly on his toes as if the fruit from his story has suddenly appeared under his feet. The three listeners laugh happily and clap as the young man continues to dance around on his toes. "And then, I heard it!" He stops, standing very still with a hand cupped to his ear and his eyes looking up distantly. "A cry from a damsel in harm's way! I scurried to her rescue, ears perked and feet light."

Again, he dances around the floor on his toes, this time making an arc around the room. Halting and stooping near the center of the room, he continues. "She was clutching her ankle, a victim of the dreaded fruit! I scooped her up!" He makes a scooping motion and stands. "There was no time to reach my home! I raced into an alleyway—"

"How old was this woman you graced with your eternal love, Dastan?" Garsiv manages past the laughter bubbling up from his throat.

Dastan cocks his head to one side, considering the question for a moment before saying, "Perhaps twenty years or so."

Garsiv laughs harder.

"You mean to tell me," Tus asks, "that you carried a woman of twenty years to safety? By yourself?"

Dastan places his hands on his hips and centers an indignant look on his eldest brother. "Yes, Tus. I did." The answer makes Garsiv's laughter ring louder. "What?" The youngest prince looks between his three listeners with genuine confusion on his face. "I did! And she _kissed_ me!"

This quiets the laughter, and Garsiv sits up eagerly, eyes shining as he asks, "Where? Where did she kiss you?"

"Quiet," Dastan commands, one finger raised admonishingly. "I will get to that part." He stoops, pretending to set his invisible cargo on the ground. "We were safe—" He gives the three a pointed look. "—for a time. She was upset because of her ankle and because she had lost her younger brother in the fray." He bends to one knee and throws his arm up violently across his shirt. "I used my outer robe to fashion a binding for her ankle and wound it tightly." Sitting down, he brings his knees to his chest and wraps his scrawny arms around them, resting his chin between his knees. "We stayed curled against one another for much of the day. It was nearly nightfall when the storm passed."

He stands and offers his hand to the non-existent woman. He bounds across the room, back to his listeners, bringing his arm around and bowing to his invisible companion and pretending to kiss her hand. "We made it safely to her home, where her brother was waiting for her." Straightening, he closes his eyes and leans forward, puckering his lips. After kissing the air, his eyes fly open, and he turns to the three with a satisfied smile. "And she was so grateful, she invited me to their evening meal!"

Garsiv laughs again, falling backward onto the bed as Sharaman and Tus clap appreciatively.

"A wonderful story!" the king proclaims, his eyes glistening with amusement. "Dastan, my son, you have a gift! Such details! I could see everything so perfectly."

Dastan shrugs one shoulder in thanks, looking away as his cheeks redden. "My mother was a great story-teller." He swallows and looks to the ground uncertainly.

"Was she?" Sharaman encourages gently, a hand stretching out to grasp his arm.

Dastan nods. "Her mother was a traveler, a gypsy, who told her everything about the world," he explains. "My mother would tell stories to the children around our home." The young man smiles at the memory. "They called her the 'Mother of Lies.'"

The three sitting before him have the decency to frown at the name that the people of their city had given the youngest prince's mother. "Dastan," Tus says softly, "that is . . . _awful_."

Dastan shrugs again, this time with indifference. "It was not said as an insult," he decides. "And she did not seem to mind." With a laugh, he says, "I was once the 'Son of Lies'—" His smile grows wide with mirth. "And now I am the 'Prince.'"/

_You are a coward._

Dastan is dead. Their father's favorite son has perished right before their very eyes. Tus and Garsiv are not blind—they have noticed their father's doting nature toward the youngest prince since Dastan was brought to the castle many years ago. There is no question that the king loves them _all_ unconditionally, but Dastan is special in Sharaman's eyes.

_You are a coward._

/Tus winces when Dastan hisses in pain, the future king's nimble fingers carefully covering a nasty mark on the young man's back with a wet bandage. Several bright red welts mar the youngest prince's back, and Tus can only sigh and shake his head as Dastan bites his lower lip and clenches his eyes shut tightly.

"Taking blame for your friend is noble, brother," he says softly, "but taking his punishment only punishes _you_. It teaches him nothing."

"Bis did _not_ steal that woman's basket in the marketplace," Dastan spits angrily, grunting as he agitates his wounds further. "He went after the boy who did and received the blame for the theft." He glances over his shoulder from his prone position on Tus's bed as best he can, narrowing his eyes. "We are not thieves."

Tus shrugs nonchalantly. "You certainly do not have need to be," he reasons, placing another bandage on the younger's back. "Then again . . . old habits die hard, I suppose."

To the future king's great disapproval, Dastan turns, forcing himself to sit up and face his older brother despite the obvious pain.

"I have _never_ been a thief," he seethes, tears welling in his eyes. "I have always earned what I keep." He straightens his shoulders as much as his damaged back will allow. "Thievery is a coward's way."

Tus smiles at the statement, a gentle tolerance lacing his tone as he asks, "And where did you learn that?"

Dastan swallows and looks away before answering, "My mother."

Tus is silent for a long moment before he clears his throat and shifts the subject. "Father would have believed you," he says matter-of-factly. "If you had told him the truth, that is."

"Father is not only subject to his sons, Tus," Dastan says, a strange edge appearing in his voice. "To us, he is a father first and a king second. But to his people—who are a great deal many compared to us three—he is a king _only_. And he cannot put his family before their wishes and concerns." He gives the older man a hard look, his eyebrows drawn together in a serious manner that makes him look much older than his fourteen years. "When a wrong is committed, the people will cry for redemption. And if that cry is not met with justice and fairness, then the king cannot rightfully call himself their leader."

Tus sits back slightly, taking in his brother's words with a contemplative frown. "Wise words for such a young tongue, Dastan." He narrows his eyes as a playful smirk takes his lips. "When did you become so scholarly?"

The young man gives a toothy grin. "When I found two older brothers to make me look as such."/

_You are a coward._

Tus closes his eyes as the words echo in his head, the last words his brother heard from his lips. What had he tried to say afterword?

_I'm sorry._

_Dastan, I did not mean it. I take it back._

_You are the bravest man I have ever had the honor to know._

_You are my younger brother, and we are going to get through this together. _

No. All he could think to say in _his _anger and _his _hurt was . . . .

_You are a coward, Dastan._

0 o 0 o 0

Garsiv feels sick. He stares at his younger brother's body, may leagues below them, unmoving and twisted horrifyingly. He stares at Dastan, who only moments before was full of life—however little it may have seemed. Dastan, the Persian lion, the prince who rose up against an army and came out victorious—who came out broken and now lies far, far below. Alone.

Did he slip? Had he _let_ himself fall? What did he feel as he was falling? Anger? Sadness? Fear? Perhaps _nothing_? Had he died on impact? What if it had taken a moment? What if he is still _alive_?

For a moment, Garsiv contemplates going down to check, to make certain. But the thought is quickly dashed as the sound of Tus's crying reaches his ears. His elder brother has not cried since they were children.

0 o 0 o 0

/The sickness takes hold very quickly. Many are dead before the alchemists begin to study it and search for a cure. The Persian people feel its full wrath, dropping in the streets by the dozens every day.

When it finally reaches the palace, Garsiv is the first to fall into its clutches. Blood spills up his throat and past his lips with every cough. The alchemists forbid the king and Tus see the sickly boy for fear of Persia's ruler (and future ruler) contracting the illness—gods forbid that Persia have no ruler.

So the young prince of merely seven years sits miserably in his chambers, alchemists surrounding him every moment of every day, their faces covered with cloths as they poke and prod him with various terrifying instruments. He is asked to breathe into smelly tubes and cough into fowl cups and lick ill-tasting wooden sticks and he just wishes that he would either get better . . . or let the sickness have him.

Darkness fills the sky, and the alchemists leave, unable to work with such meager lighting conditions. They wish the prince a good night and send silent prayers to the gods that the boy still be alive in the morning. And when they are gone, Garsiv closes his eyes and sighs, which unfortunately sets off another coughing fit.

"Garsiv?" a small voice whispers, and the young prince is able to quell the fit long enough to look around. From his balcony comes the soft sound of bare feet landing on the ground, and a moment later, Tus appears out of the shadows, a cloth tied hastily around the lower half of his face.

"Tus!" Garsiv croaks, attempting to sit up and moaning when the action causes a painful sensation to erupt in his chest. He coughs violently, doubling over as the familiar copper taste fills his mouth. When he settles and is able to look up again, Tus is at his side, eyebrows drawn together and eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Oh, Garsiv," the older boy says solemnly. "What have they been doing to you?"

"Not much," Garsiv offers feebly, shrugging with one shoulder. "Waiting until I die so that they may open my chest and dig through it like animals."

Tus's face scrunches. "Do not say such things, brother. You will make me sick."

"You _will_ be sick if you stay here much longer," the young boy warns, eyes pleading. "Go, Tus. You should not be here. _Go_."

In an act of defiance, Tus climbs up and into the bed, sitting beside Garsiv and crossing his arms. "I will not move from this very spot until you are well again."

Garsiv closes his eyes and grits his teeth. "You do not want to be here, brother. And I do not want you to see."

Tus furrows his eyebrows. "See what?"

The younger boy pauses a moment before taking a shaky, liquid-filled breath and whispering, "Me." He swallows the blood at the back of his throat and gags at the strong taste. "I do not want you to see _me_."

The unshed tears that Tus was able to keep at bay for only a short while begin to spill down his cheeks, and he takes Garsiv's small hand lightly in his own. "You do not have to always be so brave, Garsiv."

Garsiv swallows again as his eyelids suddenly become heavy. "_You_ are brave, Tus. Not me."

Before he falls into a restless sleep, he feels a cloth-muffled kiss placed on the top of his head and hears his brother's quiet words. "I am only brave because you give me the courage to be so."/

0 o 0 o 0

The alchemists had found them curled into one another the morning and had disappointedly began treating Tus as well. A cure was found within the week, and their country was set right—or as right as it could be after a mass disease had wiped out more than a fourth of their population.

Tus's tears spill down his cheeks now as they had when they were children, and the situation now seems just such a time for tears. But Garsiv cannot bring himself to do the same for his younger brother. It is not because he is not sad—the despair he feels now rips through his entire body, tearing him to pieces slowly and painfully. The fact that he cannot cry rests with a thought that will not leave him, that holds him to this very spot.

The princess.

The Lady of Alamut knows what is happening here. She knows what is—what _was—_wrong with their brother. She has the answers he seeks. This . . . is _her _fault.

With a growl, Garsiv tears himself away from the ledge, glaring around the small balcony at eyes filled with sympathy. The princess is not present. He pushes himself past the onlookers and back into the palace. She stands defiantly in the center of the room, her eyes blazing with anything but sympathy.

"I am sorry about your brother," she forces past her lips, the words sounding almost like an insult.

"Save your apology," Garsiv spits, striding towards her and grabbing her upper arms tightly. "You know how to fix this, how to bring him back."

Tamina's eyebrows draw together, and she scowls as she says, "I do not know _what_ you are talking about. Your brother is dead. There is nothing I can do to—"

"You lie!" the prince yells, shaking her fiercely. "What about the dagger?"

Tamina huffs and pulls out of the man's grasp. "And what do _you _know about the dagger?"

"Nothing," the man admits angrily, waving an arm in the air as he begins to pace, "except that Dastan believed it was the only reason you were marrying him."

The princess looks taken aback, then hurt. "He told you this?"

Garsiv stops pacing and stares at her hard. "He did," he affirms. "Is there truth to this? Is the dagger so important to you?"

Tamina frowns in contemplation and looks away from him. "It is important, yes," she says carefully, choosing her words before she says them, "but . . . its importance had nothing to do with my agreement to marry your brother."

The prince swallows and looks back towards the balcony. "This dagger . . . It has the power to bring Dastan back?"

Tamina gives him a harsh look, her head lowered so as to glare at him through her eyelashes. "The dagger's power is not meant to serve man's wants, prince. You would be well to remember that."

"He is _your _betrothed!" Garsiv points out, gesturing towards the balcony. His breaths come is stuttered gasps as his desperation grows. "He is a prince. He is the _Lion of Persia_." He searches wildly for something that will bend her to his plea. "He is . . . my brother." Her eyes seem to soften, and he continues quickly. "He was not born of royal blood, but he is as much my brother as Tus, and . . . I cannot leave him like that. I cannot leave him . . . broken."

0 o 0 o 0

/Garsiv has only begged once in his life, and it is not a part of his past that he likes to remember. It is when he is eighteen. He and Tus ride the desert on a whim, having left the palace with little word on where they are going. Dastan, thoroughly opposed to the idea of his elder brothers leaving without so much as a single guard, is left behind to his own antics. Why should the youngest prince have all the fun?

They ride for most of the day before stopping and making camp, finding it to be a mistake when they are suddenly overrun by several bandits.

"What have we here?" the leader of the group, a big man with obscene amounts of jewelry pierced through his face, asks with amusement as he dismounts from his horse. "A couple of travelers?"

"Yes, we are on a pilgramage," Tus says casually. "We travel to Alamut to pray for our mother, who is very ill."

The big man squints his eyes at the two of them, looking back and forth before something clicks and he bares a gold-plated smile at them. "No, you are not mere travelers." He turns to his horde with a flourish of his arms. "Boys! Do you know who we have here?" His teeth shimmer as he turns his attention back on the two. "Princes! Of Persia, no less! We are in the presence of royalty!"

The men laugh, and Garsiv's hand slides to where his sword should be. But it is on the ground, where the two had been sitting. He did not have time to grab it before the men arrived. "What is it you want? Ransom? I assure you, we are more trouble than any ransom we are worth."

"How about," the man starts carefully, rubbing his chin and looking Tus up and down, "a little humility?"

Before Garsiv can wonder what he means, Tus is grabbed from behind, a sword pressed beneath his chin and digging into the soft skin of his jaw. The middle prince takes in a sharp breath, stepping toward his brother and reaching out but stopping as the sword is pressed more firmly into Tus's neck.

"Now," the man says with a wicked grin, staring Garsiv down with dark, beady eyes, "beg."

Garsiv's eyebrows furrow, and he shakes his head slightly. "What?"

"_Beg_, prince," the man commands. "Beg for your brother's life, or we will slit his throat."

Garsiv swallows hard, looking back into Tus's eyes. Small rivulets of blood are beginning to run from the wound that the sword is making, and this only serves to fuel the young man's anger. "Let him go."

The leader gives a bark of laughter. "This is how Persian men are taught to beg?"

"Persians are not _taught_ to beg," Garsiv spits. "We are taught to fight." He sets a dangerous gaze on the man. "And _kill_ those who would order us to do anything we do not want to do."

The man nods in understanding, a strange smile taking his lips. "Yes, I can see that you are strong, boy." The use of the word _boy_ irks the young man somewhat, and he suppresses a growl in the back of his throat. He looks to Tus, who looks mildly afraid but also . . . _trusting_. The middle prince has seen that look plenty of times, and it always makes him give in to Tus's wishes. The future king believes that Garsiv will do what is right and stands behind his decision fully, no matter the consequences.

The man continues. "But now you have no choice. It is either _beg_, or lose your brother." His wicked smile only widens. "And the future of Persia." So, he knows that Tus is the future king, that he holds all of Persia's fate in his hands. If he kills Tus, then Garsiv will have to step up and take the throne. If he kills them _both_, then Dastan will have to step up and take the throne. Neither options are particularly desirable.

So Garsiv swallows hard and glares at the man, muttering something under his breath.

"I am not sure I heard that, prince," the leader says, dramatically placing a hand against his ear and speaking loudly so that all his men may here. "Would you be so kind as to speak up?"

Garsiv scowls. "Please," he says through gritted teeth.

"Oh, come now," the man laughs. "You can do better than that." He points to Tus. "Your brother's life depends on it!"

The young man looks at Tus again, his eyes softening at the look he finds there. Tus will gladly die for him, if it means that he is able to live. He has said as much as often as the subject is appropriate. Tus will die for him. And he cannot scrounge up enough courage and respect and _love_ to save his brother's life? With a sigh, Garsiv closes his eyes and does something that he has never done before.

He falls to his knees.

With an imploring look, Garsiv sets his gaze on the leader of the bandits and holds it there with earnest. "Please," he begs, exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please, release him. He . . ." He falters and looks to the ground, releasing a shuddering breath before continuing. "He is my brother. If you must kill someone, kill me. Not him."

A silence rings throughout the small camp before the large man speaks. "Let him go."

Garsiv's head snaps up in surprise. He did not expect it to be that easy. The man clearly wants to torment them both. Why not continue with the game?

Without a second's hesitation, the bandit holding Tus removes his sword and steps away, disappearing into the shadows. The leader mounts his horse again and looks down at Garsiv with something that looks vaguely like respect.

"Be well to remember this night, prince. It may save your life, or another's, some day."

And then the group is gone, leaving Tus and Garsiv to wonder what in the gods' names happened./

0 o 0 o 0

Garsiv remembers that night with a sharp clarity, and is agitated to find that the man was right. Humbling himself, if only for a moment, seems to be a successful tactic.

"The dagger," Tamina starts, pulling the prince from his thoughts, "is more powerful than you can imagine." She stares at him studiously, as if attempting to memorize his face. "Once it has been used, the person's soul begins to tear. One or two uses can go unnoticed for a time. But if your brother has used the dagger before, if he has used it as much as I fear . . . then there may be no hope for him." Her eyes narrow. "Even if we bring him back."

"But you can?" Garsiv asks hopefully. "You can bring him back?"

Tamina pauses. "Yes," she concedes, finally. "With the dagger I can bring Dastan back."

"How? How does it work?" The prince steps forward desperately, his eyes feverish and his hands shaking.

She explains what Dastan apparently already has knowledge of, her words sounding more and more fantastic as she continues. The dagger can turn back time, can bring the past forward so that it might be repaired. But only one will have knowledge of this moment, of this future.

This particular fact brings a frown to Garsiv's face. Dastan has knowledge of the dagger, which means he must have used it at least once—_more _than once, by the looks of him. Which also means that he has seen at least one future that does not exist to the rest of the world. What kind of future would put Dastan into such a state?

_A grim one_, Garsiv decides solemnly. He nods as Tamina finishes the instructions, how the dagger works and what he must do once he goes back.

"No," a voice says from behind them, and the two turn to find Tus standing at the balcony's entrance. "It must be me."

"Tus?" Garsiv questions, stepping towards his brother as the man slumps against the archway.

"It is my doing," Tus explains as guilt twists his face. "Dastan is dead because of my words, what I said to him just before his death." Offering his brother a determined look, he continues with an authoritative tone. "It must be me. I must fix this."

Tamina produces the dagger from her robes and looks between the brothers. "You must make a decision soon. The longer you wait, the less time you will travel . . . It is possible you may be too late already."

Tus extends his hand towards her, palm facing up, and his eyes clearly demanding the weapon. The princess looks to Garsiv, who frowns but slowly nods. Stepping forward, she places the dagger in the future king's hand, watching as his fingers curl around its hilt and his thumb rests on the red jewel.

"Tus," Garsiv whispers, and the older man looks at him questioningly. "Save him."

Tus's lips tighten into thin lines as he nods, taking a deep breath before pressing the jewel down.

AN: Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side. :D


	5. Chapter 5

AN: So...I really only can beg your forgiveness on the lateness of this chapter. It is extremely annoying when an author doesn't update for months, and I am ashamed to say that I happen to be one of those authors. I really need to get on the ball, people. Job-hunting is not going well, which is unfortunately reflecting in my work, as of late.

I do apologize, and I really hope that you like this final chapter. I really didn't want to rush it...but I really wanted to get it done.

The Death of a Ghost

Chapter Five:

The sensation is maddening. Something tugs on his insides, and suddenly he is floating above Garsiv and the princess . . . and, terrifyingly, _himself_. He watches the scene play out, familiar except for the fact that it is in reverse. There is no sound—or there _might_ be sound, if not for the deafening roar pressing in on his ears. He feels as if he is on the brink of losing balance and hovers there in that moment.

Watching himself leave the room, he feels another tug and is forced out onto the balcony—tethered to his body. Garsiv follows shortly, and they both resume their place's at the balcony's edge.

He can now see over the side.

Far below, Dastan's body jerks violently, then begins to rise in an eerie reverse-fall. Up and up until finally he settles gently back against the stone wall beneath the balcony. There are no signs of distress on his face, no desperate scrabble for safety once his fingers detach from the wall.

Dastan had allowed himself to fall.

And Tus's heart aches at this revelation.

The reversal begins to slow, the future king lowers towards his body. For a moment, he is frightened that he will not go back far enough, but as he becomes closer and closer, his body sweeps over the ledge and lowers. Garsiv briefly clutches at his arm, then Tus descends with an awkward jerking motion, slowly reaching his destination step by agonizing step until finally . . . he is there.

The roar dies down. The world begins to sharpen. And he joins with his body.

0 o 0 o 0

Dastan remembers using the dagger with intense clarity. He recalls the sensation of floating, of his insides hanging in that moment that feels almost like he is on the verge of falling. He also remembers what it feels like to return to his body—that sense of confusion, of disorientation . . . of an encompassing coldness.

Dastan remembers all of this, and his heart gives a sharp, throbbing pang of sadness and guilt when he sees that look take his eldest brother's face, having to grab the older man's arm when his grip falters. Tus's gaze whirls on him, his eyes wild and shining with something unfamiliar. Before the young prince can determine what it is, the other man speaks, his words rapid and breathless.

"Dastan, you are not a coward."

0 o 0 o 0

Dastan looks startled by the words, and Tus realizes that, by the grace of the gods, he has returned to the point _before_ those ugly words left his tongue. He cannot afford any mistakes this time. Second chances are rare. Second chances to right a terrible wrong are eve more rare. And second chances to save someone you love beyond words is almost unthinkable.

Tus will not waste this moment.

"You are _not _a coward," he repeats, venturing to release one hand from the wall and place it on his brother's shoulder. "You are the son of a king, the prince of a country, the _Lion of Persia_." He swallows and gives the other man an imploring look. "You are my brother."

Dastan studies him carefully for a moment, then nods as if making a decision. Gesturing upward, he says, "After you, brother."

Tus's shoulders sink slightly, and he sighs with disappointment and worry. "Perhaps _you_ should go first," he suggests cautiously, but the young man is shaking his head before the full sentence has passed his lips.

"You are the future of Persia, Tus. It is my duty to see to your safety." He gives his brother a pointed look, as if realizing the irony of the statement.

"And it is _my _duty as a brother to see to the safety of my _youngest_ sibling," Tus argues, though he can see in the other's eyes that he will not win this argument.

Dastan shakes his head again. "The duty to a king _far _outweighs the duty to a brother."

Tus frowns. "That is not what father taught us."

At this, the young prince looks away and concentrates on the stone wall in front of his face. "Father's teachings lost their meaning the day our uncle betrayed us."

Tus's arms begin to shake from the exertion of holding himself against the wall, but he is determined to continue the conversation. This is the most that Dastan has said for a long while. "Our uncle took advantage of what he had. His death reflects only his ill will." He waits until Dastan's gaze returns to his before saying, "And it certainly does not reflect on _you_."

Dastan sighs deeply, dust kicking up on the ledge and hovering around his face. It distorts his expression as he says softly but firmly, "I will not move from this spot unless you move ahead of me, Tus."

The older man hesitates, looking upward, then back at his brother. "But you _will_ follow . . . won't you, Dastan?"

0 o 0 o 0

There is that look again—the one that Dastan had seen after he'd stabbed himself to prove his innocence. Tus has used the dagger, and he clearly does not like what he saw.

Dastan purses his lips and offers a thin smile. "Of course, Tus," he says easily. "I'll be right behind you."

0 o 0 o 0

Tus sees the lie in his brother's eyes, and his heart aches. If he must watch Dastan throw away his life again, he may just jump after him. At this point, the pain seems too much to handle.

"All right," he says huskily, his throat closing around a lump. "I will see you at the top, then."

Dastan nods. "At the top."

Tus can offer his brother nothing more. Words seem so insignificant in this moment. So he turns and he grabs the next hold, thinking that he has seen his youngest brother alive for the last time.

0 o 0 o 0

This time, Tus allows Garsiv to pull him up over the ledge. This time, he does not turn to look as Faran is ordered to help the youngest prince over the ledge. This time . . . Dastan is pulled to safety.

The future king watches with wide eyes as Garsiv surges forward and engulfs the younger man, whispering threats of bodily harm if he should ever attempt something so ridiculously fatal again.

Dastan's gaze finds Tus's, and they share a solemn look. Shadows darken their eyes, and for a moment the eldest prince is able to sense the awful feeling that Dastan has been living with this for so long.

"Here!" a voice calls behind them, and the princess emerges from the dark insides of the tower. "Bring him!" She spares Tus a brief look before frowning and nodding in his direction. "And you as well."

Concern laces Garsiv's face as Tus agrees without hesitation. Already his body feels tired, and a chill settles over him.

"Tus?" the middle prince asks quietly.

The future king gives him a withering look. "Bring Dastan," he says carefully before turning and entering the palace.

0 o 0 o 0

It is bright and hot and cold. Dastan's vision swims and his stomach twists painfully. The ritual is barbaric, teeming with words he doesn't understand, people he doesn't recognize. His head blazes, his thoughts blur. He feels like he is falling again, falling from the balcony—falling from the cliffs surrounding the sacred sands of time.

Is that what ails him? The sands? The dagger? Will Tamina help him? Where is she? Why isn't she here?

"Tamina? Where . . . ." His throat, too dry; his words, not enough.

Then, a cool hand on his face, fingers stroking his hair. "Dastan." The voice is quiet, caring. It is hers! Not the harsh princess from the time before the dagger, but _Tamina—_the strong, protective woman he fell in love with. She will understand! She will help him!

His fingers search, grasp soft silk and hold tightly. He swallows and smiles despite the pain, taking a labored breath. "Do you remember," he rasps, drawing her closer, "when we escaped the ostrich races?"

Quiet, hesitation. What is wrong? She cannot still be angry that he tried to sell her into slavery? He would not have left her there! Truly! He only wanted to teach her a lesson, make her show some humility.

"I think I fell in love with you at that moment," he continues. "Even though you were a coercing, scheming, sad excuse of a woman . . ." He chuckles, coughs and grimaces as his chest flames. "I . . . I still saw something . . . in you." More silence. Perhaps he is wrong. Maybe she is not _his _Tamina—maybe she _is_ the coercing, scheming, sad excuse of a woman. And his Tamina, his princess, is locked away inside the sands of time, at the bottom of that horrible abyss he watched her fall into.

The tears come hot, burning his cheeks as they cascade down his face in endless rivers. "I let you fall," he whispers, grasping her even more tightly. "You slipped from my fingers . . . I could not save you."

He sputters and fights for breath.

0 o 0 o 0

"He is delusional," Garsiv mutters, attempting and failing to put on a show of anger to cover his worry. The priestess's chambers are not overly large, but wrapped in silk sheets in an over-sized bed, Dastan looks alarmingly . . . _small_.

The room is dim, lit only by a few candles, which cast an eerie, amber glow over the youngest prince's sweat-slicked skin. Several strange people draped in sheer, dark fabric hover around the bed, undulating and gyrating violently as indistinct words spill past their lips.

"This is madness, Tus!" The middle prince turns to the other man with barely-concealed incredulity. "Our healers—"

"Cannot help him," Tus interrupts solemnly, shaking his head as he looks on at the ritual. "You know that as well as I do."

"They did not know what is wrong with him," Garsiv hisses, stepping closer to his brother so that their shoulders are touching and his lips are beside the other man's ear. "This _princess _obviously does, and if she would only _tell _us—"

"Garsiv, for _once_," Tus says harshly, turning his head sharply to look the other man in the eye, "stop attempting to sabotage Dastan's well-being!"

0 o 0 o 0

Tus is unaware of the words until they have left his tongue. Immense guilt settles over him as Garsiv's concerned look morphs into hurt.

The future king shakes his head and blinks a couple of times before speaking. "Garsiv, I . . . I do not know why I—"

Suddenly, Dastan shouts in agony.

0 o 0 o 0

The pain is unbearable. It is as if the sacred sands themselves are burning him from the inside, out. Tamina's comforting, cool touch is gone, her voice so far away.

His vision darkens, his chest becomes heavy. The air itself seems to be sucked from his throat.

0 o 0 o 0

"What is happening to him?" Garsiv demands, taking a step forward. Tus grasps his arm, keeping him from advancing on the princess and their brother. "You said you would help him. Why are you hurting him?"

"We are _not_ hurting him," Tamina explains sharply as she whips around to stare at them, her eyes dark in the low lighting of the room. With her long hair wild about her shoulders, she looks possessed. "We are driving the _Sands of Time_ from his mind." She turns back to Dastan's writing form. "These memories are like demons. They burden his soul with knowledge that he should not have, and so they tear him apart from the inside." Frowning, the princess makes her way around the bed until she is at Dastan's side, the glint of something in her hand catching the princes' eyes. "They must be expelled."

Before either Tus or Garsiv can react, Tamina raises the glinting object high above her head—it is the dagger—and plunges it down into Dastan's chest where his heart lies. The older princes cry out, struggling against the many hands that now grip their arms, preventing them from reaching their youngest brother.

0 o 0 o 0

Dastan does not scream. His struggling ceases, his eyes open wide. He gasps, and the sound is filled with liquid—with blood. It bubbles up this throat and coats the roof of his mouth, his tongue, his lips. Looking up, he finds Tamina staring back at him. The brave, stoic princess is gone. Her resolve has wavered. Crimson stains her hands.

This is the Tamina he remembers—this is the woman he fell in love with.

"Forgive me, Dastan," she whispers, a stray tear finding its way down her face and nestling beneath her chin.

The young prince offers a weak smile. Strength drains from his limbs, and he closes his eyes. "Always, Tamina," he whispers.

The dark takes him.

0 o 0 o 0

All for nothing. Their fight for the youngest prince's life has been in vain. They dragged him through leagues of desert and a sand storm, pulled him to safety from the height of one of the tallest towers known to man. And this is how he will die? At the hands of the woman who promised to save him in the first place?

No. This will not be the end for Dastan.

Garsiv and Tus break free. Blind rage consumes them. They tear across the room, fighting back those who stand in their way. Sights set on the murderous princess, they scream their fury into the dark air.

They will not lose Dastan. They will not lose the beloved _Lion of Persia_.

They will not lose their brother.

0 o 0 o 0

Tamina almost doesn't have the strength to bring the dagger down, to force it to pierce the skin of the man she has come to love very much over the past few days. Yes, she has been angry beyond belief—even more angry than when the Persians invaded her city to begin with. But what is love without anger? Anger is passion and heat. Surely love cannot exist without that.

So she drives the dagger onward, she pains the man she loves—to save him.

And when his heart stops beating, when all that remains of the young prince is a shell, a husk . . .

. . . she presses the blood-red jewel.

0 o 0 o 0

Dastan awakes.

The sensation is painful. His muscles throb and tremble, something tugs at his insides, his ribcage seems to shrink against his lungs and his heart. Light sears his eyes, and he blinks furiously, raising a hand as if to bat it away.

"Dastan?" The voice is soft, probing. Familiar.

The young man squints and searches his surroundings blindly, able to make out the bland image of . . . plants. And a fountain. And . . . .

"Tamina?" he asks uncertainly, rubbing at his eyes and blinking them into focus.

The princess stands in front of him, watching him carefully as he takes in everything around him. They are in the courtyard of Alamut's palace.

"What—"

"You are safe, Dastan," Tamina says soothingly, placing a warm hand on his strangely chilled skin. "You are . . . alive."

The prince stares at her in confusion, his mind reeling. "What's happening? I thought . . . ." His bleary eyes scan the courtyard once more. "We were in your chambers. I was . . . and _you_ were . . . ." Dastan swallows hard, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "My thoughts . . . My memories . . . They're lost."

"Here," Tamina says gently, leading the man to the fountain's edge and guiding him down to sit. "Take rest. Breathe. I will explain."

Dastan does as he is told, breathing in deeply and releasing the air from his lungs in stuttered gusts. When the shaking in his body subsides, he turns to the princess expectantly.

"The dagger has been used to bring us back to this point in time," Tamina says slowly. "To the point just after we met."

"How?"

The young woman clenches her jaw. These are secrets that she and her people have kept for many years, and here they are being revealed to a man who could very well use the knowledge for his own personal gain. No matter how many times he has used the dagger, he still should not be privy to this information.

But she can sense his link to the dagger, and it is strong. It is _destiny_.

"The sands do not exist solely in the dagger once it has been used." She speaks carefully, gauging the man's reactions to indicate his understanding. He nods, but his face remains tense, uncertain. "They imprint on the user of the dagger, surge into the living being so as to work the magic. And they leave traces, small amounts. If you had used the dagger only once or twice, you would not have been affected as severely. But . . . to my understanding, you have used the dagger much more than that."

Dastan nods, the gesture hesitant. "I . . . I think I have. But it's hard. To remember, I mean."

"The sands are what carry the memories of the previous time," Tamina continues. "By returning the sands to the dagger, the memories fade."

"You . . . ." The prince takes a deep breath. "You stabbed me."

"To take the sands back, yes," Tamina says, regret apparent in her words. "And to bring us back to this place, to where your soul began to break."

"My soul," Dastan repeats quietly. "The sands. My memories . . . My memories will be gone?"

At first, she is afraid to answer. Now she understands why Dastan had been so confident and relaxed when they had first met. He had known her before this time and had . . . _loved _her. How can she be expected to compete with his love—a love much older and deeper than her own? Without these memories, he will not be the same Dastan that she met after the raid of her city. He will not remember the bond he shared with his brothers or the trials it took to forge that bond.

He will not be her Dastan, just as she will not be his Tamina.

"Yes, your memories will be gone," she whispers solemnly, wishing she could say the same about her own.

"I don't want to forget," Dastan says desperately, standing and shaking his head. "I want to remember how I fell in love with you! Why my brothers and my father mean so much to me!"

"It was a different life, Dastan," Tamina attempts to comfort. She does not understand. She does not know how deeply they felt for each other before the end, before he had to watch her die.

"It was _my _life. _Our_ life!" he argues, the memories growing even more distant. He tries to reach out in his mind, to pull them back. It is no use. They will be gone forever, and he will forget why he loves this woman, why their bond is so strong.

The princess purses her lips, her dark eyebrows drawing together. "Emotions," she starts carefully, "run deep. You will never _truly _forget, Dastan." She stands and takes his hand. "But you must willingly allow yourself to forget. You must start a new life." She senses his protest before he takes the breath to voice it, and she lays a finger across his lips. "We must move forward with what we are given. The past can do nothing for us. The future holds our destiny, Dastan."

The young prince tilts his head to the side, a thoughtful expression seamlessly coating his worry. "You know, princess," he says quietly, "I've never truly believed in destiny."

Tamina smiles and nods knowingly. "I believe you have made this point very clear."

"Dastan!"

The two of them turn to find Tus and Garsiv entering the courtyard, their strides determined and tense. The eldest prince speaks first.

"Our father has arrived."

Garsiv's fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword. "He will want answers about the day's events."

"Yes," Dastan says absently, his eyes still on the young woman. "If you will excuse me, Princess."

Tamina nods her consent, and Dastan steps back, offering a short bow before heading off with his brothers—a hand on each of their shoulders as he walks between them murmuring encouragements and brotherly advice.

The princess watches them disappear, knowing that she should be trailing behind them, ready to welcome the king into her city. But she cannot help wondering what life with Dastan will entail.

The sands will never truly leave him, not completely. They will course through his veins, proving, perhaps only to a place far in his mind, that he once lived a different life. In time, they may even diminish to such trace amounts that he allows himself to know happiness.

Tamina hopes that she can give this to him, that he finds what he is looking for in her and his family, and that he can release the ghost that held him captive for so long.

With a renewed sense of determination, the princess follows after the brothers, trailing behind slowly so as not to encroach on the familial matter and ready to start the journey that Dastan is sure to lead them on.

AN: Another project finished. *phew* How utterly and annoyingly depressing, huh? Sheesh. I had an ending in mind, and then I went back and re-read everything I'd already written (chapters 1 through 4 included) and I really didn't like it. The ending I had focused mainly on Tamina and Dastan, and as much as I like those two lovebirds, I started this story out as a bonding fic between the brothers. And that's how I wanted to finish it. I'm still not quite convinced that that is what I've done, seeing as the ending is mainly through Tamina's perspective...but I'll leave that up to you.

Seriously, if _anyone_ is truly, truly, _truly_ unsatisfied with this ending, I will attempt it again. I hate to leave a project like this so...unfinished, if that's how it feels to anyone else. But, really, if you enjoyed it and can at least _live_ with the ending, thank you! I'm glad you've stuck with me long enough to actually finish something, for once.

Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side. :)


End file.
